Friday, 4th February 2011
I failed my re-sits. I’m shattered. I know I didn’t try hard enough, but I though I might just scrape through. How am I going to explain this to my mum? She’s going to have kittens. She’s going to ground me, I know she will. She promised.
Since dad left she’s become so strict; quite over the top with our discipline, as if she has to prove something. It must be tough on her – a teacher whose kids are not that bright and flunk their exams.
I wish I’d studied more. But how could I not have taken part in the Christmas pageant. It was the only opportunity I had to impress him. Much good it did me. What do I do now? University’s out, and not just this year. I’m not going to repeat Second Year. Oh, no. In any case, if I find a job, all my worries will be over. I think. I hope.
All I can hope for is that she won’t be in a foul mood when I get home! I hope I get there before her and get to peek in the letterbox. What’s today? Oh, goody, Friday. She won’t be home till after four, after picking up little sister from granny, and Jeff comes after he closes the shop.
I will keep out of her way. I’ll heat a pizza in the micro and so if she calls me down to eat I’ll say I’m not hungry. Oh silly, silly me, five times over. Why did I not study? I knew I would not feel like it once I got home from rehearsals. The being together was nice but all in all it wasn’t worth the hassle. Too tough I had to find out the hard way what a narcissist he is.
All I want to do is writing. And act. She thinks my writing is rubbish, that it’s a waste of time. I’ll show her. Writing is so much more interesting than mathematics and history; better than everything else really. I know that this is not something I can say out loud in front of her and Jeff, but hey, I have to find a job that somehow involves writing or I’ll die trying. Sometimes I wonder how Jeff can stand her ranting and raving about nothing at all – but I think he sympathises with her.
It’s a vicious circle. Whenever I approach editors of newspapers or magazines, asking them for a column, they ask to see my portfolio. But how can I get one of nobody is willing to take a chance on me?
Journalism? Nah. These days you have to have at least a First Degree, and anyway I like my sleep so I’d hate having to work shifts. With my luck, all the robberies and murders would happen when I was on call. I could be a poet, like Keats; but they don’t earn much nowadays, do they? Not unless they get their work splashed all over the show because they are poet laureate, and then not in Malta. Not too many crowns of laurels locally.
And I am so worried about Sonia. I think she’s pregnant, I really do. She’s not even looking me in the eye these days, so how can I just up and ask her? I catch her looking at me when she thinks I’m too busy to notice it. I’ve seen her go green about the gills sometimes, when someone overdoes the deodorant.
I hope I’m wrong, but I have been watching her. I wish she would confide in me, but after the French homework episode, she doesn’t seem to keen on talking to me. She knows she owes me an apology. I know I ought to take the bull by the horns and tell her I forgave her long ago, but I’ve noticed how she flinches when I move in her direction.
These days I seem to spend more and more time worrying about anything and everything that happens. How would Sonia cope with a baby? She can hardly take care of herself, that one; she’s always forgetting things and looking flustered. But at least she always gets straight As in tests.
Having a baby at eighteen is not much worse than failing crucial examinations, isn’t it? It’s tough being a teen.
It’s already 3.30pm so I’d better get that pizza.